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Snowblind
Snowblind
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Snowblind

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His pencil flew over the pages, capturing the mystique of the landscape with a minimum of strokes as he frantically tried to gather everything into his sketchbook. Rocks and waves, lichen and gulls, ice and whales, delicate flowers and overwhelming vistas were pulled from his surroundings and restrained in two dimensions of black and white and yet they lived. To Simon these two hours were worth two years of rock-carrying, post-pounding or dung-sifting.

When he had satisfied his need to draw, Simon turned again to the raft and manhandled it over the slippery rocks to the water which seethed and raced between the black boulders. The light craft bounced on the waves and Simon almost did the splits when the raft leapt seaward while he still had one foot on shore. But at last he was safely launched and he paddled three hundred yards from shore before relaxing to survey the scene.

Almost immediately he spotted a pod of narwhal swimming towards him. Through binoculars he watched them twist and turn fluidly in their element, staying just below the surface except when they came up to blow. Simon could feel the mist of their breath on his face. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their hoarse cries carried on the wind.

Gradually Simon realized the seat of his jeans was wet. He glanced down to see his raft riding low in the water and waves washing over the side. Hell, he was sinking! Frantically he searched for the leak. Not the valve. Not under him. Not on the gunwales. His probing fingers searched over the side and down under the water line but within seconds they were numb from cold. He felt what he thought was the hole but he couldn’t be sure.

He watched the dancing bubbles in horror. Were they getting more numerous? Was the hole getting bigger? He shifted, trying to see the gash but with every move the waves washed inside faster and the raft settled deeper into the water. It no longer danced on the waves but rode sluggishly, reluctantly, up and down on the swell. The shore looked a long way off.

The repair kit! With a rush of relief Simon remembered the repair kit kept in the pouch of each raft. The patches were supposed to stick even to wet rubber. Keeping his body as still as possible, he stretched to retrieve the kit from its storage place. Nothing. Simon leaned forward, recklessly causing a flood of water to wash in board. His fingers scrabbled in the corners of the pouch but it was no use. The repair kit was gone. He was in real trouble.

Tentatively he began paddling, altering his stroke in an attempt to minimize the water he was taking aboard while maximizing his speed towards shore. With narrowed eyes he tried to gauge his progress. It would be close. Should he swim for it? Simon tried to recall the statistics he’d read about survival times in arctic waters. Why hadn’t he paid more attention? Was it thirty seconds or thirty minutes?

‘Not thirty minutes,’ he decided aloud. ‘Five minutes, maybe?’

He tried to judge the distance to shore—two hundred yards at least. But he’d been terribly mistaken in his estimate while walking to the coast—maybe he was wrong again. And he wasn’t a strong swimmer.

‘You’re a fool to be out here alone,’ he cursed himself as he fought panic. ‘Paddle, idiot.’ He paddled desperately, awkwardly, trying to ignore the slopping of the water as it gurgled around his numb legs. The bottom edge of his jacket was submerged now and it acted like a wick, pulling the water upward, soaking his vest and shirt. Only his fear was keeping him warm.

The rubber boat was slowly folding up around him, trapping him in a rubber strait-jacket. He had to stretch to reach up and over the edge of the boat to keep the paddle in the water. The pressure of the collapsing boat was squeezing his legs painfully. When shore was still thirty yards away Simon knew he would soon be unable to kick free of the boat’s ever tighter embrace. He gritted his teeth and used every ounce of his strength on the puny paddle. Simon’s muscles were screaming in protest and the water was up to his chin when the bottom of the raft dragged on the stones. For a moment he was too dazed to realize he’d made it to shore but at last he staggered to his feet, fought off the raft, and struggled for the rocks. He collapsed in a wet heap, shivering with cold and exhaustion.

Ten minutes later, teeth chattering uncontrollably, Simon knew he would have to move. If he stayed still he would die of hypothermia. With numb fingers he fumbled at his zipper, then let the jacket plop to the hard stone where it lay weeping on to the gravel. He pulled on the dry toque he’d left on shore and each hair on his head was grateful for the warmth. He jumped up and down flapping his arms like an arthritic penguin.

‘I’ve got to get dry,’ he whispered hoarsely. He looked around. There was nothing to burn and besides, his matches were useless now. Why had he spurned the waterproof kind?

He stripped off his soaking clothes and wrung them out as much as his numb fingers could manage. Then with a shudder he wriggled back into the damp garments. Not much of an improvement, but it was the best he could do.

‘Camp,’ he mumbled. ‘Camp,’ he repeated clearly, forcing himself to action.

It was a nightmare journey. Time after time he stumbled and fell because his feet were too numb to feel the uneven surface. He was getting colder, not warmer, and a rime of ice formed on the seams of his clothing. The sun had disappeared behind an ominous cloud bank. ‘You don’t want to join Phillip Loew as a permanent resident,’ he told himself as he scrambled up yet another hill. ‘One more hour. Walk just one more hour and you’ll be home.’ He descended the next slope and splashed through the inevitable stream at the bottom. A thin film of ice tinkled into a thousand crystals.

‘Simon? Simon?’

The voice penetrated Simon’s daze at last and he peered around for the source.

‘Simon!’ Anne hurried up to him. He faltered to a halt. ‘Oh my God,’ she cried. ‘You’re frozen!’ She briskly rubbed his arms and back, stretching her slender arms around his shivering body. ‘You poor thing,’ she murmured.

Gradually his shivering diminished to the point where he could talk. ‘Thanks.’

‘Can you walk now? We must get you back to camp.’

Simon nodded wearily. ‘I know. How much farther?’

‘Not far. Come on.’

‘Had a good close look at the water, did you?’ Eric asked when Simon appeared at supper that night.

‘Too close.’

‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ Eric’s goatee bristled righteously. ‘We don’t need any accidents this year.’

‘Serves him right,’ Joan remarked. ‘He’s supposed to be working.’

‘You should be thanking me, not criticizing,’ Simon retorted. ‘If I hadn’t taken that raft you might’ve been the one to sink.’

‘I only go out on ponds and most of those aren’t more than waist deep. And I wouldn’t have lost the raft.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone out alone,’ Jeff chided. ‘One of us should’ve gone with you. We know the dangers.’

‘The rest of us have work to do. I know I have no time to spare for sight-seeing.’ Tony sneered at Simon.

‘Let’s just be grateful he’s still alive,’ Viola exclaimed as she executed a final flourish to the vigorous back rub she was giving the victim. Simon drew his blankets tighter and cradled his hot chocolate. Would he ever get warm?

‘It was thoughtful of Anne to go looking for you.’ Eric directed his words at Simon but it was Tony he watched.

‘Especially since Simon wasn’t even missing,’ Tony hissed, glaring at his wife.

‘I wasn’t looking for him,’ Anne retorted, ‘but it was lucky I was out that way.’ She stood up, her hands on her hips. ‘What’s wrong with you people anyway? You’re acting like you wanted Simon to have an accident …’

Tony had the grace to blush but neither Joan nor Eric turned a hair. ‘Don’t be melodramatic, my dear,’ Eric said in his most irritating manner. ‘Sit down and finish your dinner like a good girl.’

Anne gritted her teeth and stomped off.

Viola clucked her tongue. ‘Don’t bait her, Eric.’ She turned to Simon. ‘I’ve made you some more hot chocolate.’ Viola thrust yet another scalding mug into Simon’s hands. ‘We’ll get you warm, don’t worry.’

As Simon drank his chocolate he glanced again at Wally. Wally hadn’t contributed to the conversation but his yellowed eyes darted among his companions as if seeking hidden meanings in their words.

When Simon woke the next morning, even his feet were warm. For a few minutes he lay in his bag, savouring the comfortable glow in his fingers and toes. He squinted at his watch and groaned. Seven-thirty. He heard muffled clatter. The others were already up.

After a static-filled radio check, Simon grabbed a couple of chocolate bars and headed out in the direction of the IBP station where Wally and Jeff had waited out the storm which killed Phillip. This station lay in a north-easterly direction from their base camp, and its two small quonset huts huddled in the middle distance. Like all things on Bathurst Island, however, it was farther away than it looked and it took Simon an hour and a half of brisk hiking up and down the long low hills to get there.

Until now he had avoided visiting this vestige of the International Biological Program because he instinctively resented its human blight on an otherwise barren and wild landscape. It comforted Simon to know that when his expedition departed they’d leave no sign of their intrusion; no building, no hearth, no garbage. It would be as if they’d never come, except for a few less insects, bacteria and plankton, and a few minor scars on the unyielding rocks. They were even careful not to thaw the permafrost under their tents, keeping the atmosphere indoors only marginally warmer than outside. He smiled as he remembered Viola telling him about the radio operator on a previous expedition.

‘That private was so lazy,’ she railed, ‘he just stayed in his tent all day. Stove going full blast. Can you believe it? All the way up here at government expense and all he does is sit in his goddamn tent? Two radio contacts a day—that’s all he did. Wouldn’t even help carry gear.’ She brushed a hand through her grey hair. ‘Anyway, he got his comeuppance. His stove melted the permafrost under his tent and he woke up one morning in a swamp. I laughed so hard … Problem was, the darn swamp kept spreading like mould on bread till we all had to move our tents.’

By the time Simon jogged up to the IBP site, he’d unzipped his parka and shed his heavy mitts, retaining only the thin gloves he usually wore inside them. His scarlet toque was riding high over his ears like a rooster’s comb, so he swept it off and crammed it into his pocket.

According to Jeff, Polar Bear Pass had been intensively studied during the United Nations organized year of exploration and research. Scientists posted on Bathurst Island had semi-permanent quarters and a rough runway had been scraped into the terrain. A squat, ladder-like aerial, minus its windsock, was all that remained of the airstrip and the two low grey huts were the remnants of the camp itself.

These huts, side by side, were each about five metres long and two high at the vault of their curved roofs. The door on one gaped open on a lone hinge and Simon peered into the gloomy, empty interior. There were no windows, and the dark, cold tunnel enveloped him in its sense of desolation. Simon slammed the door shut but as soon as he let go it clanged open again, echoing hollowly across the barrens. He approached the second hut almost reluctantly and gave its door a tentative shove. Nothing. He fumbled at the frozen latch and with difficulty swung the hasp free. A good shove from his shoulder made the stiff hinges screech in protest but the door opened. He stooped and entered.

Boxes, maybe thirty or forty, were piled along the walls and the majority were still sealed. They’d been there twelve years, left as emergency rations for anyone marooned in this wasteland. Staying low to avoid banging his head, Simon hauled one crate to the shaft of light coming from the doorway. The rest of the interior remained in deep shadow and even the air had the closed, lifeless feel common to all long-deserted buildings. Breathing it, Simon’s lungs still hungered for more oxygen, as if this dead air could no longer support life.

He tried to shake off his gloom by opening the carton. Sixteen large jars of instant coffee confronted him. One was only half full. Wally and Jeff? Or the IBP scientists? He kicked the box back to its former position and, with his eyes now adjusting to the gloom, read the labels on the others. Beside the coffee was a case of instant hot chocolate and under that a box labelled potatoes. Jeff and Wally could have managed for quite a while provided they could keep themselves warm. The next rifled crate Simon examined contained fuel canisters and a tiny stove. Not the Hilton, Simon decided, but the hut would have seemed very welcoming indeed to men trapped in a blizzard.

Curious to see how twelve-year-old potatoes looked, he bent over their box and ran his finger under the flap. The top of the carton gave way easily. Glue must be rotten, Simon thought … potatoes likely are too. But inside, instead of vegetables, he found a lump of dirty green canvas. He began to re-close the carton but curiosity stopped him. He grabbed an edge of the cloth and pulled, but it was jammed in tightly and wouldn’t yield. Simon wedged the carton between his feet and yanked, almost toppling backward as the canvas came free. He turned the bundle over in his hands and saw the pockets and leather straps of a backpack—a well-used one from the look of it. It felt heavy. He untangled the straps and set the pack upright on top of the coffee carton. When he smoothed out the creases Simon noticed the initials P.L. written in faded magic marker on the flap.

‘P.L.,’ Simon murmured. ‘Phillip Loew?’ He worked open the cord knotted around the mouth of the bag and peered in. He recognized the outline of a small soil corer and a rock chisel. He lifted the tools out and dug deeper to find a field notebook, plastic sample bags, blank tags and a crushed chocolate bar. Even before he found Phillip’s name scribbled on the flyleaf of the notebook he felt sure he’d found the pack of the missing man.

Simon sat back on his heels, a frown corrugating his forehead. What was Phillip’s pack doing crammed inside a potato carton at the IBP station? No wonder the RCMP hadn’t found it—or Phillip either for that matter. According to Jeff, they’d concentrated their search in the Pass itself.

Simon twisted around, peering deeper into the gloom. Was Phillip’s body here too? He sprang up and walked towards the rear of the quonset hut, every nerve at attention. He methodically searched the few areas hidden by the boxes. Nothing. He headed for the rectangle of light framed by the doorway, then crossed the few yards of open ground to the other building and stepped inside. The hut was as empty as he’d thought.

Chewing his lip, Simon returned to where he’d left Phillip’s pack. He repacked the bag, knotted it shut and slung it over his shoulder. As he surveyed the hut one last time he saw the notebook lying on the ground. He scooped it up and shoved it in his pocket. From the doorway he looked back. How much longer would the food stored here stay edible? When would the next traveller take shelter in this bleak sanctuary? How much longer would the quonset hut itself stand? Everything was completely still, totally quiet, and Simon felt as if he were the only living thing left on the earth. He stepped from the gloom back into the world of sunlight, birdsongs, and life. As he pulled the door shut the dissonant protest of the hinges signalled his return from an alien landscape.

As he crested a hill Simon spotted Eric and Viola not far away. Eric was gripping her arm and she seemed to be protesting. ‘Hello! Eric!’ Simon shouted.

They turned and stared at him. Viola waved weakly. By the time Simon reached them she’d pulled away from Eric.

‘Something wrong, Vi?’ Simon asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘You look excited, though. What’s up?’

Simon held out the backpack he’d discovered. ‘Recognize this?’ He looked from one stunned expression to the other.

‘It’s Phillip’s,’ Viola whispered. ‘Isn’t it, Eric?’

Eric cleared his throat as Simon silently pointed out the initials. ‘Yes, it’s Phillip’s.’ He reached out to take it from Simon. ‘Where’d you find it?’

‘At the IBP station.’

‘The IBP station?’ Viola’s voice rose in disbelief as she shook her head. ‘Impossible.’

‘That’s where I found it,’ Simon assured her. ‘In a carton marked potatoes.’

‘In a carton? What on earth would it be doing in a carton?’

‘Good question, Eric. I didn’t see any sign of Phillip himself.’

‘Of course not,’ Viola said. ‘Jeff and Wally would’ve found him if he’d been there. They spent two days at the station during the storm, remember.’

‘And they would’ve mentioned the pack if they’d seen it,’ Simon murmured. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Meanwhile, Simon, I’d like to keep Phillip’s pack,’ Eric said. ‘His mother may want to see it … a last reminder …’

‘Sure,’ Simon agreed. ‘It belongs to you more than anyone else.’

As the group sat around that evening, waiting for their foil pouches to heat, Jeff groaned and stretched out his legs. ‘God, I’m tired! This terrain really takes it out of you. And then lugging rocks too … Think I’ll spend tomorrow cataloguing my samples.’

Joan smirked. ‘Can’t stay the pace, Jeff? Getting a little soft? Too old for field work?’ She rose and moved lithely around behind him. ‘Shall I get you a hot-water bottle?’ She bent to put her mouth close to his ear. ‘Your knitting?’

‘Put a sock in it, Joan. I’m in better shape than you are.’ He brushed her away and turned to Simon. ‘Did I hear you found Phillip’s pack at the IBP station?’

‘Yeah. Packed in a cardboard box.’

Joan, half way back to her seat, stopped and stared. ‘How’d it get there?’

Simon scanned the circle of faces. ‘You tell me. I understood he had it with him when he disappeared.’

Anne winced. ‘You don’t suppose Phillip himself’s there too …’

‘I looked. No Phillip.’ Simon stirred the simmering water with a stick. The silver packages bobbed around, a skin of bubbles clinging to their sides like tiny jewels. ‘The funny thing is,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘the pack was stuffed into the carton … squashed down so the top flaps could be closed. And the top was re-glued.’ Simon tried lifting a packet, balanced on his makeshift spatula, out of the water but it fell back in with a plop. ‘It looked to me like it had been hidden.’

Eric’s goatee vibrated as he frowned. Simon could hear the words before Eric spoke them. ‘Nonsense. You must be mistaken.’

‘You explain it, then,’ Simon invited.

‘I can’t form an hypothesis without all the facts. It’s unscientific.’

‘I can,’ Joan interrupted. ‘I bet Phillip put it there himself.’

‘Why?’ Jeff and Viola chorused.

‘Remember Phillip complaining his tent had been searched? And his stuff rifled?’

Viola and Jeff nodded. Tony and Anne glanced at each other.

‘Well, maybe Phillip hid it to keep it safe,’ Joan proposed.

‘But there wasn’t anything interesting in it,’ Simon objected. ‘Just field notes and tools.’ He turned to Eric. ‘You have the bag now. Did I miss something?’

‘No. It held just ordinary field supplies. Phillip wouldn’t need to hide it.’ Eric glared at Joan, who shrugged and locked her fingers behind her head.

‘Just an idea, Eric. Don’t lose your cool.’ She looked around. ‘Anyone got a better explanation?’

Simon’s eyes widened when Wally spoke up. ‘Phillip hid it so he could accuse one of us of stealing it.’ He wiped his thin mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s something he’d do … Phillip liked to make trouble.’

‘I refuse to sit here and listen to this!’ Eric stood up and stalked to the stove. ‘Give me my dinner. I’ll eat in my tent where the company’s better.’

The members of the research team settled into a routine. They rose early and had breakfast, making no attempt to socialize. Instead, each scientist was intent on getting started as quickly as possible on the day’s tasks. The crate of inedible breakfasts had remained untouched since the first morning. Now everyone ate lunches in the morning since these were more appetizing, and most of the cookies and chocolate bars were secreted in parka pockets for snacks during the long day away from camp.

On this particular morning Simon had agreed to help Anne. As he lifted the huge pack to his back he recalled the snatch of conversation he’d heard the night before.

‘… So if you could help, Tony, just for the morning …’

‘I’m too busy. Everyone else manages alone, Anne. Don’t be a baby.’

‘You know it’s heavy work to put in the barriers. I’m not strong enough.’

‘Get your loverboy, Simon, to help. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you cosying up to him. It’s sickening.’

‘That’s not true, Tony, and you know it!’ Anne had replied hotly. ‘But if you won’t help I bet he will!’

Yes, Simon thought decisively, count on it.

‘How far away are these ponds, anyway, Anne?’ Simon panted under his load.

‘Not that far. They’re the closest suitable ones I could find.’